


In a Dark Room, We Don't Have to See the Light of Truth

by pepparkakor



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepparkakor/pseuds/pepparkakor
Summary: Inspired by (and title lifted from the lyrics of) Dua Lipa’s “No Goodbyes”Set immediately after Batman and Joker fight in Ace Chemicals. Bruce takes John home for one night before he is admitted to Arkham.





	In a Dark Room, We Don't Have to See the Light of Truth

 

“Did you ever…” John faltered. “Did you ever think of me as your friend? Like...a true friend. Someone you actually care about.”

It broke Bruce’s heart to hear John ask it, but then, he  _ was  _ pinned to a control panel by one of Bruce’s batarangs. Even before this moment, Bruce had done nothing to earn John’s loyalty. The word “friend” had passed his lips so many times; not a lie, exactly, yet never without an ulterior motive. He didn’t blame John for doubting him.

“Of course. Of course you were my friend.” Bruce swallowed thickly. “You were...you  _ are _ ...so much more.” Bruce was rewarded with the softness that returned to John’s eyes at that.

“You...like  _ me?” _ John laughed weakly and shook his head. “You are  _ one... _ messed up guy.” 

Bruce came to in an ambulance, starting up from the stretcher as a wave of adrenaline hit him. He put a hand to a face and breathed out in relief; the cowl was still there, his identity still safe. Well, mostly. The list of people who knew his “true” identity had grown too long in the past year, but at least the mystery was still there for Gordon, who stood just outside the ambulance, smoking silently...with Waller?

“Smoking kills,” Batman opined dryly. The two turned toward him in surprise. It was odd to see Gordon in his civilian clothes, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal muscular, very  _ hairy  _ forearms. Bruce felt himself grow a little warm and he shook his head, clearing it of whatever  _ that  _ was.

“I’ll be damned if I survived all that only to die of lung cancer,” Waller said. She flicked her cigarette to the ground and looked to Gordon. “Would you mind giving us a moment? Batman and I have some unfinished business.” Gordon shrugged amiably and walked off, hopefully to return home to his wife. The man worked too damn hard. Not that Batman could judge.

“It’s not easy to say this,” Waller admitted, “but you saved my life back there.”

Bruce gave Waller as imposing a stare as he could muster, given that he was still lying prone. He nodded and said nothing.

“You don’t have to worry,” she continued. “Our stalemate still stands. Gordon will oversee Joker’s transfer. I’m pulling out of Gotham, effective immediately.” She sighed. “I know you think I’m the devil...but I want you to know I didn’t see it going down like this. I let things get away from me and never really regained a solid footing.”

_ You and me both, _ Bruce thought. “His name is John,” he said out loud. He jumped down from the ambulance and immediately regretted it as he felt at least one wound open back up. He clutched his side and winced.

Waller looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Right...John Doe. Gordon is planning to hold him overnight, then send him back to Arkham in the morning.”

“Wait,” Bruce said. “Release him to me, first. I need to...question him. I’ll deliver him to Arkham tomorrow.”

Waller looked skeptical and folded her arms. Bruce fought to keep his voice calm, measured. “You owe me,” he growled.  _ It’s my last chance. _ “Please.”

Waller rolled her eyes. “Fine. But if you don’t return him to Arkham first thing tomorrow morning, I’m putting an APB out on your ass.  _ Bruce Wayne’s _ ass.” Her threat made clear, Waller left to make the necessary arrangements. Bruce touched two fingers to his earpiece.

“Alfred.”

“Ever-present, Master Bruce.”

“I need you to make up one of the guest bedrooms, please. The one closest to my room.”

“Ah, is Miss Kyle staying with us tonight? I had thought that she’d left town, but I would be most happy to--”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, “it’s, uh, it’s not Selina.”

Alfred was silent, then said, “Ah.” Bruce waited for more; there was none. Bruce knew that a lecture was coming later, but he felt grateful for Alfred’s tact in the moment. He ended the call and went to meet Waller, who helped him load a cuffed and sedated John into the Batmobile. 

Bruce tried to watch the road as he sped home, but the events of the night were too fresh in his mind for him to focus and he leaned heavily on the Batmobile’s autopilot feature. He glanced at John as the streetlights washed over his slack face. Already whatever hair products John had used were losing their hold and his hair was wilting, relaxing from its twin points back into a mussed version of his regular coif. He looked so fragile, it was hard to imagine him as a murderer, even though Bruce had seen it up close. Bruce had a memory of falling asleep in the back of his parents’ car and how his mother had turned around in her seat to pet his head as he drifted off. He had felt so safe then, so loved. Bruce wondered when the last time was that John had been touched that way. Had he ever known unconditional affection? Dr. Leland had said that John’s past was a mystery, even to himself. What kind of trauma had caused that depth of memory loss? Maybe the same thing that made John so volatile. Bruce knew that PTSD wasn’t an excuse for murder, knew that John knew wrong from right...at least most of the time, even if he sometimes forgot himself in a riptide of emotion. He knew, too, that taking an unmedicated person with potential schizoaffective disorder home after a homicidal mania was selfish and ill-advised, to say the least. But when John shifted, whimpering in his sleep and clenching his bandaged hand, Bruce still reached out and smoothed John’s hair back, whispering, “Shhhh. I’ve got you.”

They pulled into the Batcave. Bruce removed his suit and put it away, then tenderly unpacked John from the passenger seat. John’s limp body seemed to weigh almost nothing and Bruce easily carried him in his arms to the elevator and up to the mansion. Alfred waited for them a look of reproach. He led Bruce to the guest room and helped him remove John’s shoes, coat, and vest, then whisked them silently away, leaving behind fresh towels. Bruce sighed. The lecture was going to be  _ severe. _

For now, there was only John, lying on top of the silk coverlet, breathing quietly. He was filthy with his own blood and the blood of others. Bruce thought about the first thing he usually did when he returned from being Batman, and left to run a bath in the adjoining bathroom. When he came back, John was still sleeping. Bruce sat next to him on the edge of the bed. He reached for John’s shirt and paused only a moment before starting to undo the top button.

John suddenly grabbed his wrist. Without opening his eyes, he addressed Bruce in a gravelly voice: “So this is the kind of hospitality one can expect in jail?” John popped one eye open, then the other. Slowly, he sat up. “Wait...pretty sure they don’t have down pillows in lock-up. Where am I? What’s going on?” He gasped. “Am I dead??”

Bruce took him by the shoulders, trying to ground him. “I’m helping you out of your clothes so you can enjoy a bath. You’re here with me, in my home. Welcome to Wayne Manor, John.” Bruce half expected John to brush him off, to say, “It’s Joker!” for the twentieth time. He didn’t expect John to lunge forward -- for half a second, he thought it was an attack and he almost punched John in the windpipe -- and hug him so hard that it stole his breath.

“Thank you,” John murmured. “I don’t know how you did it, but Batman has his ways, I guess! I promise...y-you won’t regret it, buddy. I’ll be so good--”

“John,” Bruce said, feeling nauseated with guilt, “this...this isn’t long-term. I was only given leave to bring you home for the night.”

Bruce felt John stiffen and slowly withdraw from the embrace. “Oh,” he said, biting his lip and looking down. “Not salvation, then. Just a stay of execution.”

“Nobody”  _ \-- else -- _ “is dying, John. You’re safe. In the morning, we’ll go to Arkham together.” Bruce put his hand under John’s chin, lifting his gaze. “It’ll be different. I’m still working to improve the facilities, and I’ll visit you all the time. You’ll see.”

“And what about Tiffany? Will you visit her, too?” John asked. Bruce’s encouraging smile dropped and his eyes went wide. John jerked away from Bruce’s touch and refused to look at him. “That’s what I thought,” he said bitterly.

“John…” Bruce said helplessly. He passed a hand over his face.  _ Such a fool. _

John was silent for a long time, long enough that Bruce began to think that he had seriously misjudged things, to wonder if he should call Waller,  _ or Avesta, she would handle it better. Maybe Dr. Leland, but would she be awake at this hour?  _ As Bruce thought it, John stood and moved wordlessly to the bathroom. Bruce tracked him warily. John stopped at the threshold, turning his head just slightly so that he spoke over his shoulder --

“Well? Are you coming or not?” When Bruce didn’t immediately respond, John made a sound of exasperation. “C’mon, Bruce, you said we only have the one night...and I think the bathtub is overflowing.”

It was. Bruce hurried to turn off the faucet and mop up the puddle on the floor with a couple of plush, monogrammed towels. John watched him with his arms folded, but when Bruce was done, he giggled slightly. “Boy...it must’ve been a  _ long  _ time since you brought someone home, buddy. So much for ‘Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy.’ I’m kind of...flattered.” As Bruce straightened up, John stepped closer to him. 

“A-anyway...I think you were...in the middle of something when I woke up?” He cleared his throat and gestured toward his shirt, his pale visage turning a faint shade of pink.

Bruce didn’t hesitate to close the distance between them. He reached for John’s shirt buttons and managed to undo the first one despite the subtle tremor in his hands. John was watching him, and when Bruce looked back, John tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Bruce realized that John was terrified -- of what was happening, yes, but also of what would happen if he  _ didn’t  _ do it, didn’t take his only chance to be loved before he was shunted back into the system. Bruce stopped his fingers.

“Let’s slow down,” he said, and when John shook his head, “We have hours. I want...I  _ need  _ to take my time with you.” John gulped audibly at that and starting groping at Bruce’s belt; Bruce gently removed his hands and led him to sit on a tufted stool. “Hold on.” Bruce left and came back with a hot, damp washcloth. He knelt in front of John.

“Close your eyes.” John shut them obediently and Bruce took the cloth to his face, tenderly washing away the sooty black makeup, the blood spatter. Memories of the fight at Ace Chemicals surfaced and Bruce pushed them away, forced himself to stay in the moment. There would be time to ruminate when John was gone, but he was here now, his body relaxing under Bruce’s ministrations, a look of contented disbelief on his long face.

When Bruce had cleaned John’s face and throat, he set the cloth aside and lifted John from the stool to the countertop. John opened his eyes and looked around nervously for a second.

“B-Bruce--” Bruce stood between John’s legs and had his fingers again poised to deliver John of his shirt, but he stopped and looked into his eyes instead, waiting for a sign to continue. John puffed his cheeks out. 

“Well, don’t  _ stop, _ ” he said impatiently, and Bruce chuckled low in his throat. Very carefully, he popped one button free, then the next, and reached his hands in to push John’s collar open. John’s chest was thin and the palest Bruce had ever seen. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s sternum, breathing in the scent of him, sweat and pheromones and something else, fragrant and nostalgic. It reminded him of the pastry shops in Gotham’s Little Italy. Anise? Marzipan? Whatever it was, he liked it. With one hand, he continued to unbutton John’s shirt, using his other hand to slide it off one of John’s shoulders; it gleamed in the low light.

“You look like a pearl,” Bruce said to John. “Beautiful.” John hummed in surprised pleasure.

“No one’s ever said anything like that to me,” John replied. “How uncharacteristically... _ poetic _ ...of you. Not at all the kind of thing you would expect Batman to say. He’s all,  _ ‘I am the night!’ _ and  _ ‘You can’t keep that batarang, John,’” _ John said, deepening his voice into a silly caricature of Batman’s modulated tones, then laughing nervously.

“Well,” Bruce said, punctuating his words with kisses as he worked his way from John’s chest to his neck, “he’s not here right now. It’s just Bruce and John. John and Bruce. J and B, B and J…” He lightly nipped John’s earlobe and heard the breath catch in his throat. Bruce pulled John’s shirt out of its messy tuck and removed it entirely, throwing it across the room, and put his hands on John’s slim hips, drawing him near.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he instructed. John set his hot, sweaty hands on Bruce’s shoulders as though they were two kids at a junior high dance. “Almost there,” Bruce said with an encouraging wink, and John’s hands crept farther, clasping at the back of Bruce’s neck. John was blushing furiously and having a hard time deciding where to focus his eyes. He settled on closing them entirely, squeezing them tightly shut. Bruce smiled to himself as he ran both hands through the sides of John’s hair, pulling his face to him and bringing their lips together.

At first, John’s lips were hard and numb as a turtle’s beak, but Bruce kept moving his mouth against them, yielding and warm, until John imitated the same; then he was too eager, gnashing their teeth together as he plunged in at a rapid pace.

Bruce pulled back slightly and whispered against John’s lips, “Slowly.” Then he renewed his own gentle rhythm until he and John were in sync. Bruce ran his tongue softly over John’s upper lip and felt him quiver.

“That…” John murmured as he pulled away, “...that was  _ amazing!” _ His eyes flew open and he exclaimed, “But next time, can you wear the cowl, and you can be hanging upside down -- that’s what a  _ real  _ bat would do  _ anyway  _ \-- and we can --” John mimed French kissing, chewing the air with terrifying enthusiasm, then coughed and rubbed his neck sheepishly. “I, uh, I saw it in a movie once…” Bruce didn’t answer; he was caught on the words  _ “next time” _ and fighting back a sudden wave of melancholy. He shook himself internally and smiled back at John.

“Sure, I would love to try that with you.” John beamed. “But right now, the bath is getting cold.” Bruce stepped back, giving John the space to hop down from the counter and walk to the large, freestanding clawfoot bathtub. John dipped his hand in and gave Bruce the thumbs up; still warm! His smile dropped and he cleared his throat.

“Ah, Bruce...buddy…?”

“Yes?” Bruce asked, wondering what could be wrong.

“Would ya mind, um...turning around?”

“Oh! Uh, yes, of course,” Bruce stammered. It was his turn to blush as he turned to give John privacy. He heard the rustle of pants falling to the ground, sloshing as John got into the bath and sighed at the warmth of it.

“Okay, you can look now,” John said. Bruce grabbed the stool and brought it to the bathtub, sitting behind John’s head. John tilted his head back to look at him and gave him a goofy, adoring smile that went straight to Bruce’s heart. He could see, just below the surface of the water, the shape of John’s lithe, pearlescent body. His pulse quickened a little and he forced himself not to look too hard. He had never been such a gentleman with any of his dates in the past, but this was different. John knew him,  _ saw  _ him, in a way that few others had. John was in the tub, but Bruce felt almost as naked.

Bruce rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and poured a little shampoo into his hands. 

“Close your eyes,” he said, and John did. Bruce dipped John’s head back just enough to wet his hair, then worked his hands through John’s verdurous tresses, massaging the shampoo into a lather.

“Unnhhh, Bruce,” John moaned, “your fingers are sooo  _ strong. _ Even better than when I get my hair cut. Maybe hairdressers should start moonlighting as vigilante crime-fighters!”

“God, I hope they don’t. You wouldn’t want to put me out of a job, would you?” Bruce teased. “And can you imagine the puns?  _ ‘Missed me by a hair!’ ‘That was a close shave!’ _ Awful.”

“Hmmm, maybe. Though honestly, Batman could stand to lighten up a little. A pun here and there wouldn’t hurt. That’s why he needed the Joker…” John trailed off and Bruce could feel the tension creep back into his neck and shoulders. Bruce silently tilted John’s head back, cupping water in his hands. He tilted John’s head this way and that, rinsing his hair so shampoo didn’t get into his eyes, caressing his jawline and ears, reaching down to squeeze his shoulders. John moaned again and then suddenly sat up with a splash, reaching down to cover his lap with both hands. His skin, already made pink by the warm water, slowly turned a brilliant shade of crimson.

“John? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Bruce asked with concern and John shook his head rapidly. “Then what?” John cleared his throat and spoke in a falsely bright voice.

“I, uh, I think I-I’m clean now, is all! Yep, clean as the squeakiest...whistle…” John turned his head to grin reassuringly at Bruce and Bruce stared back in bemusement. “I’d better get out, I’m turning into a lobster here. The, uh, hot water and all.”

“Um, okay then. I’ll get you a towel.” Bruce brought back the biggest, fluffiest towel John had ever seen and held it out, turning his head so John could get out of the bathtub with a modicum of privacy. John wrapped the towel around himself and snuggled into it. He seemed calmer. Bruce left and came back with one of his silk robes, which he set on a door hook.

“This is for you. I’m going to my room for a few minutes; I need to rinse off and change, too. Take your time in here and come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be just down the hall.” John nodded and Bruce left. He showered quickly and exchanged his rumpled clothing for boxers and a t-shirt.

When he entered his room, the bedside table lamp was on and John was there, perched nervously on the bed in Bruce’s robe. He looked so vulnerable and uncertain; Bruce could tell that he hadn’t even gone through all his drawers and things, like he had expected he might. Bruce remembered how little time he had left with him and it felt as though he were fighting Bane, and the behemoth had him by the throat again. But John had been there, too, and he hadn’t hesitated to come to his rescue. And later, with Bane temporarily incapacitated --  _ and did it matter how, at this point? _ \-- John had put an arm around his waist and grappled them both to safety. Batman wasn’t used to being saved. It had felt...nice.

“I wish,” Bruce said as he walked to the bed and sat beside John, “that I were a different man sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. “What could be better than being  _ Bruce Wayne?” _

“Don’t get me wrong,” Bruce replied, “I’m not complaining, exactly. I know I’ve been lucky. I just...I want to forget everything that happened tonight until we got here. I want to pretend everything is okay. I don’t want to let you go. But I know that I have to, and I know that I will.” He reached out and stroked John’s damp hair. “And even though I know it’s the right choice, I hate myself for it.”

“Oh, well,” John said, shrugging. “If it helps, part of me hates you for it, too.” Bruce laughed wryly. John continued, “But other parts of me, other parts...love you.”

Bruce looked shocked and John rushed to undercut his words. “I mean,  _ I _ don’t... _ love _ ...you, of course not, that would be crazy, and you would never, er...it’s just, you’re just very good at, um, washing hair and, ah, kissing, and I love  _ that.”  _ John’s viridescent eyes were round with worry.

“John, it’s okay,” Bruce said, taking both of John’s hands in his. “I…I feel...” This was harder than it should be. When was the last time he had said the words? It must have been some time in the last twenty years, right? “What I mean is, I...love...you.” There! He had done it. Batman triumphs again. “I love you, John. I really do.”

“Oh…” John said in a small voice. “Wow. Um.”

_ Oh fuck. _ Had Bruce misread...basically everything John had ever said or done in the past few months? He held his hands up and said, “I’m sorry, John. I’m not trying to put pressure on you. I wanted you to know, but however you feel is completely okay,” as he tried to ignore the way his chest ached. He could swear that he heard his heart cracking, like thin ice across a deep, dark lake.

“N-no! Bruce, that’s not--” John grit his teeth and growled in frustration. “I’m such an _ idiot. _ Of  _ course  _ I love you, I think that’s been pretty  _ obvious _ , but it’s really  _ scary  _ saying it out loud and even  _ scarier  _ hearing it, somehow.” He grabbed Bruce by the front of his shirt with both hands. Bruce was still processing everything and thinking,  _ this is is just like at the cafe, _ when John whispered, “Say it again.”

Bruce reached for John and slipped his hand into his robe, wrapping an arm around John’s naked back and easing him back onto the bed. He lay on top of John, putting his weight on his own forearms, and buried his face in John’s neck, inhaling the clean scent of him -- John smelled like his things now, which made Bruce strangely excited -- and he looked at John’s face and saw the man who knew him too well and yet couldn’t be sure of him, and he said again, “I love you,” and John’s eyes glistened. But it wasn’t time to cry yet -- if he started, Bruce wasn’t sure he could stop -- so he said,

“And now...I think I’d like to hear a little more about which parts of yours love me so much.” John laughed in surprise and blushed, and Bruce thought how endearing it was. He had found John’s countenance to be creepily pallid when he met him in Arkham, but he realized now that he liked John’s fair skin for how well it gave him away. He plucked at the sash on John’s robe, undoing the knot, but John held the robe shut. Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him and John fidgeted in embarrassment.

“I...don’t know how to do this,” John admitted. “It won’t be good.”

“Well then,” Bruce said, sitting up, “I’ll show you.” He pulled the t-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. His muscular body was wreathed in scars (and had, in fact, bandages over the fresh wounds John had inflicted on him). John reached out to touch him, hesitantly in first, and then with growing curiosity and awe, running his fingertips over the many textures, wincing with sorrow when he came across recent sutures. His touch raised goosebumps and Bruce’s areolas puckered, the nipples growing taut. Bruce felt his cock twitch and forced himself to stay still, to let John grow familiar with the man under the suit. John paused to look shyly up at him, and Bruce kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Can I touch you now?” he asked. John nodded and lay back on the pillows. Bruce opened the robe delicately and the silk puddled around John, who was now fully exposed and luminous in the near dark. Bruce took in the long, lean limbs, the pronounced hip bones, the hollow chest. The effect should have been gangly, but instead struck Bruce as delicate, elegant, like a long-legged bird, maybe a heron. John shivered as Bruce appraised him.

“You look so serious,” John said. “I feel like a crime scene you’re examining for clues.”

Bruce hummed playfully. “It’s important to be thorough when collecting...evidence.” He ran his hands over John’s body from clavicle to thighs, and watched as John’s sex went from half-swollen to stiffly erect, protruding from a thatch of soft, dark hair that was  _ not  _ green, Bruce noted with interest, but the same ash brown as John’s eyebrows. 

Bruce rolled to his side and tugged his underwear off so that his own length sprang free. He reached for the bottle of almond oil he kept in the bedside table drawer; when he rolled back to John, he found him staring at the ceiling with intensity.

“Hey,” Bruce said softly, “it’s okay. We can stop here. We can do whatever you want.” He knit his pinky finger with John’s and said, “We can get dressed, I have a pair of pajamas you can wear. I can ask Alfred to make us waffles. We can watch a movie, eat popcorn...It’s been a long night, we could just go to sleep. You name it.”

John sighed noisily. “That sounds amazing and I definitely want to do all of that...after.” He frowned sadly. “I’m sorry, I-I know I must be...disappointing to you. You could be with anyone tonight...any night…” Bruce gaped at him.

“Is that what you think? Because I hate to ruin my image, but being Batman doesn’t leave a lot of time to get laid.” John grimaced and Bruce softened. “And that hasn’t really mattered to me until now. It still doesn’t matter. I just want to be here, with you. I don’t care what we do. You are enough for me.” Bruce laughed. “After everything that happened tonight, this ranks pretty low on the concern meter. I’m frankly surprised that I can even get hard, I’m so exhausted...let alone feel  _ this  _ turned on.” That got John’s attention; he looked at Bruce and a little smile sneaked across his face.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then…” John said, hesitating only briefly, “...can you go back to whatever you were about to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything yet,” Bruce said. “Hold out your hands.” He poured a little pool of oil into John’s palms. “Rub them together. Good. Now,” he murmured, scooting closer to John and taking his hand, placing it on John’s shaft, “show me how  _ you  _ like to be touched.” He put his hand on John’s thigh and watched as John began to stroke himself, timidly at first. Bruce groaned and applied oil to his own hands, reaching for himself as John increased in confidence. 

“Yesss, that’s so good,” Bruce hissed. “You’re so beautiful, John.” He wrapped a hand around John’s, gauging his pace and grip and stroking with him. Eventually he took over, marveling as John bucked and gasped against the bed, clutching the coverlet. John made a strangled sound in his throat as he arched his back and thrust into Bruce’s hand, once, twice --

“Come for me, John,” Bruce urged.

\-- and with a third he collapsed as ribbons of come jettisoned onto his chest and stomach and spilled over Bruce’s fist. John lay there, panting, eyes screwed shut, as Bruce disappeared into the master bath and returned with another washcloth. He wiped John down and made to rise, but John snatched his wrist.

“Wait,” he whispered hoarsely, “I want...I want to make you feel good, too.”

“Please, John,” Bruce said, “please touch me.” He lay back down and guided John’s hand to his arousal. John imitated what he had done for himself, graceful fingers wrapped around Bruce’s cock and rotating as he pumped up and down. John added another hand, weaving his fingers together and moving them like a piston, and Bruce saw white. “Ah, fuck! John! I -- I’m close -- I’m going --  _ unnnhhhh!” _ He came in great, shuddering bursts. It had been a long,  _ long  _ time.

After cleaning himself up, Bruce returned with pajamas for John, and he slid his shorts and t-shirt back on as John slipped into them. They lay on top of the coverlet, Bruce behind John, John tucked tight against his body with Bruce’s arms folded around him.

“You lied to me,” Bruce said sternly.

“...what?” John asked, genuinely puzzled and nervous.

“There is no  _ way  _ that was your first time doing that,” Bruce said. He felt, more than heard, John’s laugh.

“I’m still disappointed that Batman only has a little bottle of lube in his side drawer,” John parried. “I woulda thought a guy so fond of gadgets would at least have, I dunno, a Tenga egg or something…”

“A what now?” Bruce asked, stupefied, and John giggled. “Just what did you get up to in the months between your release from Arkham and finding me at the funeral?”

“Ah, um,  _ well,” _ John said, “there’s a lot of things you don’t see when you grow up in a psychiatric hospital, y’know? So when I got out, I did a lot of... _ research.” _ Bruce guessed that a majority of that “research” might have involved John’s collection of tabloid clippings related to him, but whereas that might have creeped him out before, he now felt only amused affection.

“So you know something about a sex...egg, or whatever you’re talking about -- and I don’t even...do you put it inside…? Wouldn’t it get...lost? -- but you didn’t know what kind of card to give at a funeral? Sounds like your priorities were...in perfect order, honestly,” Bruce concluded. “Someday you’ll have to show me. Sounds like you’re quite the expert,” he purred into John’s ear, and his lover squirmed against him. It was almost enough to make Bruce want to disrobe again and see just how much John had learned in the abstract, put it to practical application, but he could see the sky brightening outside and he knew that even if there existed enough minutes in a lifetime to savor every one of John’s quirks, the minutes left for them now were few.

“Let’s get up,” Bruce said. “We can get breakfast going. I’m pretty sure I know how to operate a waffle iron, no need to wake Alfred.”

Alfred was already awake, however, and willing to conduct the waffle preparation with a minimum of judgmental sighing. John ate a stack of waffles almost as high as his eyebrows, covered with all manner of jams and syrups, and drank an entire pot of hot chocolate before Bruce could stop him.

“I am more than a little nervous about setting you loose in Arkham on a sugar high,” Bruce chided.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” John said with forced cheer, “I probably won’t be loose! They don’t break the shackles out often, but I have a feeling they’ll make an exception in my case…” Alfred looked startled and Bruce clenched his fists involuntarily.

“I promise I won’t let that happen, John,” he said grimly. John shrugged and gave him a little smile.

“You can’t be around all the time.”

“I…” He knew it was true. “I’ll make arrangements, make sure that you’re treated well. I’ll be there every day, or as often as I can.”

“That’s...that’s swell, buddy,” John said, “and I appreciate it, I really do.”  _ But. _ Bruce could hear it, even though John hadn’t said it out loud. Bruce didn’t know what was on the other side of that “but” -- did John think he deserved to be maltreated? That he still didn’t trust Bruce or his feelings? Or, worse still, that he’d changed his mind, that he didn’t want Bruce after all? He was afraid to ask and angry at his own cowardice.

It was time to go. Alfred had cleaned and pressed John’s things, for which he received a hearty handshake (it would have been a hug, except that Alfred had cleared his throat  _ very  _ loudly when John had tried it). John changed back into his outfit and left his borrowed pajamas carefully folded on the guest bed. He came willingly when Bruce pulled his Bugatti around the front of the manor. 

They were both quiet on the ride to Arkham until John noticed that they were near the Old Five Points.

“Can I stop in,” John asked, “for, uh, old times’ sake?” Bruce considered it; even though he knew that he should turn the request down flat, he didn’t feel that he could resist John’s last request, as it were.

“Two minutes. And I’m coming with you.” He pitched his voice almost as deep as Batman’s, even without the modulator. John looked disappointed, but he nodded. Bruce parked and they crept inside the defunct subway station. He was surprised when John didn’t pause to look around, but instead made a beeline for the Ha-Hacienda. Bruce followed closely and found John rifling through the bureau.

“Yes! Still here,” John said to no one, clutching something to his chest. He turned, and Bruce saw a small, shabby stuffed replica of...himself. John shrugged in embarrassment. “It’s just, ah, s-something I made in Arkham, during craft time. I know -- I  _ know  _ it’s  _ weird, _ but...I don’t want to be alone,” he whispered, looking at the floor.

“My god, John,” Bruce said and John flinched, misreading the emotion in Bruce’s voice. Bruce moved quickly to John and threw his arms around him, burying his face in his hair and inhaling deeply, holding him as tightly as possible so  _ he  _ didn’t fly apart. “John, oh, John,” he said, “you are  _ not  _ alone.” He could feel John’s pulse against his, wild and desperate, like a grasshopper caught in a child’s hands.

They stood there for many heartbeats, until John said, “We should probably go...I don’t want you to get in trouble.” They pulled away and John grinned like he used to and said, “I’m trying so  _ hard  _ to think of a way to make a joke out of that, something like,  _ unless you want to start calling  _ **_me_ ** _ Trouble.”  _ He cackled and Bruce cracked a smile.

“Sounds like a good nickname for you, actually.” He held his hand out and John took it. They walked back to the car and arrived at Arkham soon after.

For a long moment, they sat in the parking lot. John’s eyes were closed; it looked like he was steeling himself. He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes.

“I’m ready,” he said bravely.

“Take this with you,” Bruce said, and John looked at him expectantly. Bruce twined his fingers through John’s hair and leaned over the console to kiss him. There was a little saltwater in the kiss, but neither minded. When Bruce broke it off, John beamed at him.

_ “Swoon,” _ he said, clapping a hand to his heart, and Bruce laughed. Together, they left the car and walked to the front door. Dr. Leland waited just inside with a smile that was patient and a little sad. John gave her a small wave. “Hey, Doc.” He turned to Bruce.

“See you soon, buddy?” he asked hopefully.

“Tomorrow, if that’s okay?” Bruce asked, looking to Dr. Leland. She nodded curtly and Bruce looked back to John. “I promise.”

He extended his pinky finger and John curled his own around it and winked.

“Tomorrow.”


End file.
